Category Archives: Poetry

demivierge

24 Monday Dec 2018

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Lady Frigg: there’s no shame when the gods touch
us. Hand on a mutton dagger. Fingers

in a velveteen mine. What they call a Dutch
Jacking, Fifty-nine, Mutual Pleasures

is what we do, every day, after school.
Fertile demivierge: all that’s in repose,

ready to be woke, is in us. Flesh fuel.
Dungarees around your knees. Your curled toes

quiver as I work in a third finger —
stroking what lies within. Like a heart-stone

or a seed-fruit our gifts are limitless
here in your bedroom before your mother

gets home. Tiny deaths spring up. Endless moan
as the gods fill us, vast and numberless.

Note:
DEMIVIERGE: A French term meaning, “an adolescent who, though still technically a virgin, has engage in other sexual activities including mutual-masturbation, oral sex and heavy petting.” (from, sex-lexis, an on-line erotic dictionary)

olisbos

23 Sunday Dec 2018

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Would I might rouse the jelly-boy in you
which throbbed, quaked, pulsated in your knickers

last night. A dill-doll. A purple cork-screw
with all the battery-power of mother’s

little helper. Greeks called it, “olisbos” —
born from where the ghost of Sappho’s cosmic

songs caused storms, carved the island of Lesbos.
I like it best when we’re out in public;

you slip it out and head to the restroom,
gone for ages. Once I heard your fuck-please

keening groan mixed along with Cunt-Bugger’s
(pet name) dreary drone. Last night cum, froth, spume

glazed its sides. This night with its batteries
dead you feel a touch too raw for pleasure.

scurrilous

20 Thursday Dec 2018

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It was odd: taking you to high school prom
though I was in college. That dress: ruffles

galore. You had licked cum from off my palm
moments before but in one of the lulls

on the dance floor while Wham!’s Careless Whisper
dropped I felt scandalous. Rites of Passage,

indeed: with acid from an eye-dropper,
with wine, with pot. Dried cum caked your cleavage

and ass, your fleecy cunt under your dress.
If I must praise anything I shall praise

us: a shy wanton and a sex-starved nerd
and our last night. Neither of us could guess

how soon we’d part: I’d start my Vegas-phase
making porn and you enrolled in Harvard.

wanna

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

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A spring is freed within a cave, a pearl
polished. Two mouths both open. Your morass,

thicket of curls, leaves cum-smears as you curl
over, spasm, then curl again. Cut class,

I said. Afternoon’s after-shocks teach us
all we need to learn. Your dad calls, urgent

that you return. “It’s my turn,” you say. “Mess
you up twice, boy. Make you dumb with brilliant

vice. Make you fall in love with sin, again.
Make you wanna please.” With heat like sauna

you guide me in. Fingers atop your pearl.
Fingers between us; an oak tree root in

your mussed-up morass. “Cunt’s floodgate gonna
bust,” you warn and your toes begin to curl.

aslant

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up

to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup

voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”

More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd

brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.

Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s

muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”

love-tide

18 Tuesday Dec 2018

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Plea to the sea. Lure of cure in rapture:
you took a photograph with your brassiere

unhooked, sitting in front of a mirror
to watch me, inch by slow inch, disappear

into your split-slicked need. We sat with spread
hips. Your hair covered my face. Lips steady.

Camera snapped the moment the dark seabed
boiled slag up in you, filling the cowrie

of your cunt with the hope that I might fuck
away your wound if I could. There is pain

only sea sprites can cure, like the violence
in your pix: like how love-tide flows amok

in us. We keep fucking, trying. Again,
always again. Just once, O gods, just once.

tad

16 Sunday Dec 2018

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Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,

etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,

Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague

reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,

splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.

All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear

and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.

funk

15 Saturday Dec 2018

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The air is getting thick and you won’t come
here. Ah, you cum but not here. You female

presenting nipples you. One day that dumb
joke will be a headscratcher. With fox-tail

anal beads, with zest and tongue baths, the thatch
of my snatch shaved to rubble. Your people

are not my people. They still farm. They still scratch
the earth and make it bloom. Mine are brutal

the way that I’m brutal. The way I’ve sunk
my hands in your hair, guided myself down

your throat, heard you moan and then felt you choke
on air thick as sin. No more hardcore punk

funk, you said. Freedom, I said, is to drown
in cum is the first step in getting woke.

faith

14 Friday Dec 2018

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Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon

calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon

in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,

foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow

fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone

somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers

will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.

askew

13 Thursday Dec 2018

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We pulled off the road to a shack with no
glitter on the porch, just the rancid ghost

of your father, a lost hungry Ego,
damaged Id. Fingernail scratches that boast

the things you do scare other kids. Scared stiff
but not scared straight. Love is always askew

in this curved earth, bent sky, the lush whiff
of kink under our nails. I feel for you

as I unzip your fly, ease short-shorts off
wide hips, kissing each dark stretch-mark. I feel

you, go down on you, pressed against the wall
of your childhood home. Your dead dad still scoffs

at your needs. What we do now is love: heal
all his ill work, free the ghosts in your skull.